pictures of love and madness
by Call-Me-Crazy.Cuz I Am
Summary: "That's how you know he loves you too; not with words from the mouth, but with words on paper. That's how you realize that he is anything but ordinary and it's funny, really: the girl who longs to be different and the boy who was never anything but different." {Lily Luna&Lysander, in the 'Beautiful' universe. Please R/R}


**A.N. Hi, you guys! **

**This another piece in the 'Beautiful' universe because I was feeling really really sucky and jealous of my older sister and Lily was a good outlet for that. **

**I hope the way she thinks isn't too confusing or annoying; tell me what you thought in the review I am seriously BEGGING you to leave. PLEASE REVIEW. :D. **

**pictures of love and madness**

Your name is Lily Luna Potter, and **jealousy** is something you understand all too well.

You love Rose, you really do, but everything about her screams better. She's **unique** and **beautiful** and so **mature.** You want to be her, because she has everything you've ever wanted. She's treated like an adult even when she's a child, while even when you're an adult, you're still treated like a child.

The **jealousy** is a side-effect of being the youngest **Weasley-Potter** child, really, and when you're little, you don't really mind it. It doesn't bother you because here's something magical about being the youngest, about always getting treated special and always having people take care of you. No matter where you go or where you are, you are treated like a **;****princess;**.

It's not until you are older that you understand what a disservice that was.

Sure, you love your family and you don't mind the babying, but there are times when you feel **trapped, smothered, hidden away.** You hope for, you search for, a way to be **different**, and though you never admit it, you secretly hate Rose for being so effortlessly unique. See, you know that you and Rose are extremely similar. You both see everything everyone else does better, only you can't brush it off like she can. She's just **one-of-a-kind**, while everyday you struggle to set yourself **apart**.

That's why, when you start at Hogwarts, you fake joy when you are sorted into Gryffindor, and you don't show anyone how devastated you are that again, you're just like the rest. There's nothing special about you.

During the day, you **fake happiness**. At night, you see the world through a** haze of tears** and a **blur of colors**.

It's those nights, though, that truly get you interested in color. On a whim, one night when you're lazing on the common room couch, you start thinking about color personality, and how if Rose was a color, she'd be **bright, bright green**. Soon, you've imagined colors for all of your cousins, and your Potions essay is covered in scrawling doodles.

After that, the world is **bathed in color** for you, and every scrap of paper you own is covered in drawings. You see things is **^symbols^** now, symbols and bright washes of pigment.

But it's still not enough.

You are still just one of the **many**, another _**twinkling star on the horizon**_, and it cuts you deep inside that even when you try you are **mediocre at best**. No matter how desperately you fight against it, you are still **/*Little Lily Potter*/.**

And then your mother asks you to write to Luna Lovegood-Scamander's sons, and your life changes.

Lorcan is **sweet**, **charming**, **gentle**, and undeniably your _**best** **friend**_.

Lysander is _**moody**_, _**aggressive,** **passionate**_, and undeniably your **soulmate**.

Only, you can't accept that, even when he comes to Hogwarts in your 5th year and you lose yourself in his cerulean eyes. Deep down, in the darkest part of your heart, you don't think he's special enough. He's a stereotypical bad-boy, with his earring and his permanently mussed **/****yellow/** hair and his piercing gaze. The one thing that makes him different is that you can't find a color for him.

Lorcan is easy; his bright smiles and happy persona scream ***-**bright blue**-***.

Vic is warm **/**butter-**Y**ellow**/**.

Teddy is deep, ***^***sunset-**O**range***^***.

Fred and James are the same color, **#****U**tameable and wild bright red**#**.

Molly is the color of **::**w**A**ter**,** clea**R** and calm and unfaz**E**d**::**.

Louis is dark **(^**cin**N**am**O**n-red**^)****.**

Albus is dark **T**wilig**H**t-blue. Dom is **[+**baby-doll p**I**nk**+]**.

Rose is ******emerald-gree**N****.

Lucy is **{**hazy-yellow**}**, the yellow off filterin**G** sun rays.

Roxanne is **:**plum-purple**:**.

But you can't find a **Lysander**. It's not that Lysander's color is hard to find; it's that he's so **changeable**. You settle for ***dark purple*** and then he does something so undeniably **^^red^^** ***purple*** doesn't fit him anymore.

Still, though, you dismiss him as **ordinary**, and even though your **heart beats faster** whenever he's near and you **can't breathe when he smiles at you,** you blow him off.

All the while though, you feel more and more like a **china doll**, placed upon a **shelf**. Always apart and separate and sheltered, never able to **be yourself**. The only place where you feel like you can be you, where you feel like you can think in **/^****colors and symbols^/** and not have to hide it, is your sketchbook.

He finds it, one day.

You're stupid, _**so** **stupid,** _and on a **/red-yellow-white-blue/** summer day, when you two are spending a lazy day in your room, you leave it on your bed when you go to the bathroom, and when you come back, he's flipping through it with a shocked look on his face.

Most of the drawings in there are of him, and if he didn't already know how you felt about him,** he does now. **

But he doesn't laugh at you, he doesn't hold this **paper-and-paint love confession** over your head. He doesn't mock you for your cowardice, for your inability to stand up for yourself.

Instead, he takes your hand and leads you to his suitcase, where he hands you a **(*black*)** spiral notebook.

There's a story inside, and it's dedicated to **you**.

That's how you know he loves you too; not with words from the mouth, but with words on paper. That's how you realize that he is anything but **ordinary** and it's funny, really:** the girl who _longs to be_ different and the boy who _was never anything but_ different.**

Everything. Is. Perfect.

And then **Rose&Scorpius** happens, and

Everything

Is

Shattered.

**_why does rose get to break the rules and still be happy why can she stand up for herself and i cant why does everyone still love her why does scorpius worship the ground she walks on why am i so inferior why cant i be her why why why why _**

The drawings in your sketchbook become more and more angular and sharp, anger and jealousy and resentment poison the one place where you could be you, and the worst part about it is that _you have to stay fucking happy, stay fucking perfect, stay everything you were before and you don't want to, you want to leave and give up and take Lysander and run. _

That's the real reason you ignore Rose, the real reason you gossip about her and ignore her and treat her like a pariah: you're jealous that she, yet again, can do something **you can't.**

You drift apart, becoming **sullen** and **angry** and **sharp**, a mess of **pointy emotions** and **shards of self-hatred** that cut anyone who tries to reach you.

Except for **Lysander**.

**Lysander** runs into the angry, sharp, dangerous forest that is your mind until he finds you hiding behind trees. **Lysander** follows you into even the darkest places of your mind. **Lysander** gets so angry with you, you have no choice but to come out of your sketchbook.

He tells you, one night when you're both out of Hogwarts and have been living together for a little, to close your eyes. He takes your hand and leads you down the stairs into the basement of your tiny house, and opens up the room to the left.

When you open your eyes, you see that he has built you an art-studio. There are canvases and easels everywhere and a cabinet full of the best, the most expensive, paint takes up an entire wall.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, his hoodie is loose, and you can tell he desperately wants you to **love it**, even though he pretends he doesn't care.

You grab his arm, pull the both of you onto the cool brown-sugar-brown wooden floor, and you start crying, choking out tearful **(^blue^)** _i-love-yous_ and **-dark green-** _thank-yous._ He immediately takes you into his arms and you sit on his lap and you kiss him harder than you thought was possible, because he is the first person to truly love all of you, to give you what you most wanted in the world, to ever look at you like you are a woman, like you are desirable and something other than **/*Little Lily Potter*/. **

Right there on that wooden floor -_years later you'll blush when you think about it, but in the moment you don't care-_ you give **all of heart** to him, and in his arms you are lost in a sea of **colors** and **symbols** and** Lysander**.

He plants kisses all on your mouth, and when he pulls away it's there that you see in his eyes a fleck of **!gold!,** and you know what his color is.

He is **!gold!**, with molten strands of **^red^** and **&orange&** running through his center, forever **changing** and forever **intens**e. Finally, you are no longer jealous of anyone in the world because he's **Lysander** and he loves you and you love him and you're no longer nothing, no longer **the absence of color**. He is **!gold!** and you are ***(dark-blue)*** and together, you two make a color you can't describe.

It's the color of his eyes when he asks you to marry him by** passing you a note** in the middle of Sunday dinner at the Burrow and it's the color of the walls of the art studio **he builds for you.** It's the color of the paint you **smear on his skin** when you maul him with kisses after he helps you cover your living room walls in a mural of the **sunset**. It's the color of the sweat that **glistens on your skin, **the color of the love in his eyes when the art-buyers go crazy over your first painting, and it's the color of your **newborn son's skin** .

It's the pride you feel when you hold your daughter, marveling at her perfection, and announce that her name is **Rosie**.

And even though you're still treated like a **child** and there are times when you feel just a bit jealous of Dom's success or Vic's cooking, you have **Lysander and Jack and Rosie and Holly and Oliver** and you know that is all you will **ever** need.

You are no longer jealously-green, no longer angry at Rose for being brave enough to do what you always wanted to, no longer ***#angry-resenting-red#*** or **!*!fake-pink!*!**. No, you are **that** color, the color of **Lily&Lysander,** and you **paint the rest of your life** with it in mind.


End file.
